


without

by eichart



Series: the uncertainty of lost hope  ('17-'18 season) [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, don't get used to it, this is literally the softest shit i've written in my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 21:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichart/pseuds/eichart
Summary: The first thing they teach you when you step out onto ice for the first time is how to get up after you fall. Falling is a part of hockey, just as much as the puck, as the stick in your hands, as the pure thrill of scoring. Skating, shooting, scoring; those aren’t always easy, but sometimes getting up is the hardest part of all.You don’t make it in this league if you don’t get back up.Sam was on the ice the last time Jack went down too.





	without

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: 2017-18 Bruins game Jack sustains his second high ankle sprain during, ending the night before the second Leafs game of the season.

The first thing they teach you when you step out onto ice for the first time is how to get up after you fall. Falling is a part of hockey, just as much as the puck, as the stick in your hands, as the pure thrill of scoring. Skating, shooting, scoring; those aren’t always easy, but sometimes getting up is the hardest part of all.

 

You don’t make it in this league if you don’t get back up.

 

Sam was on the ice the last time Jack went down too. The scene is still etched permanently into his brain: the collision, the wrenching way Jack had cried out and not gotten up from the ice. The way the silence had hung heavy in HarborCenter in the moments after, shock stifling hope that’d been there only moments before. It’s all there in his head in stop-motion, flip-book quality that stutters through every time Jack goes down.

 

But this feels so utterly different, surrounded by black and yellow and shrouded in the adrenaline that comes with game nights. Sam’s not even looking in the right direction, trying to protect the puck from whatever Bruin is breathing down his neck when the whistle blows the play dead.

 

Sam turns to look and his heart stutters still. The arena is silent and Sam can feel their bench hold their breath.

 

Jack gets up this time, though --so that’s something, if anything.

 

They’re not playing well when Jack skates off, and they barely have time to think about the giant gap left in the top line. Phil barks out the new lines, the game skips on barely a heartbeat later, and the team focuses on surviving.

 

Jack’s still not back in the dressing room when they gratefully -- _narrowly--_ escape the first period with no small effort from Johnny shutting down the net to keep the scoreboard at all zeroes.

 

The harsh breath of the team fills his ears as they finally come back to themselves, worry in stomachs, exhausting already nipping at limbs. Sam tugs off his jersey and sits in his stall with fingers buried in his hair as he counts his breaths up to ten. Eventually, caught breaths turn into the low murmur of hushed tones, concern, game-plays.

 

“All right, boys, we have to put those last five minutes behind us.” Ryan’s rises clear above them all, drawing heads up from their downturned positions. “Johnny bailed us out there in the end, but we gotta pick it up.”

 

Silence fills in until Phil crashes in with no update on Jack and harsh words for their game plan. “--keep it simple.” he finishes off with. “--go get ‘em, boys.”

 

The dressing room is hushed with game-prep concentration  when Sam looks up. “We have to do it.” He hears himself say, perhaps in a rare streak of vocalness. But Ryan nods and Risto’s holding his stick too tight, Sam can feel in the tightness of his chest how much he means this. “We have to do it for Jack.”

 

\--

 

“--Jack.” Sam’s a touch breathless by the time he gets to the room they’re keeping him, jersey and pads shed quickly in his stall, three of eighteen precious intermission minutes already ticking down. His fingers catch in his hair as he pushes the door open and it swings shut with a final sounding click behind him.

 

Jack fixes him in his clear blue gaze, clearer than Sam had expected. “Are you okay?” Jack asks him instead and for a moment Sam blinks, lost and then, oh of course. The head-first collision into the boards, Chara’s shot right at his knee.

 

“Yeah--” breathes Sam, stepping in close to where Jack’s sitting on the table, legs splayed out before him. “Yeah, of course.” He hesitates for a moment just next to him, and then Jack moves and Sam’s moving to wrap arms around him, head tucked in along his shoulder.

 

Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

“I didn’t see it until after--”

 

“You went into the boards and I wasn’t there--”

 

Sam knows he’s holding Jack a bit too tight, but Jack’s fingers are digging into his shoulders too and this has to mean something. He lets the words trails out and takes a deep breath in again. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but Jack doesn’t give any sign of letting go until Sam finally pulls back.

 

Five minutes left.

 

“I better go.” he says.

 

“Hey--” says Jack, one hand reaching out to wrap fingers around Sam’s wrist. Sam looks back in the hesitation that follows. Jack seems to consider something quickly, swallows in the silence and drops his grip. “You’re going to kill it, okay?”

 

“Yeah.” says Sam, disappointed somehow even as warmth courses through him. “—for you.”

 

\--

 

Sam walks back into the dressing room with two minutes left.

 

“We’re going to get this.” He says, two dozen eyes on him and the determination etched into every line on his face. He pulls on his pads and slips his jersey on with a sense of finality.

 

Sometimes all it takes is something to rally around.

 

\--

 

Jack eyes look a little hazy when they open at the sound of Sam slipping into the room, pain dulled by painkillers and slightly alleviated by the win they somehow pulled off.

 

Jack blinks slowly at Sam as if he can’t quite believe he’s here. “What’re you doin’ here?” He asks, “I saw your game --shouldn’t you be out there talkin’ about it?”

 

“Yeah--” Sam drops into the chair by Jack’s side, head dropped down on his arms folded on the edge of the table “ ---yeah, but I rather be here.” He mumbles.

 

Jack makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, but Sam can tell he’s pleased nonetheless. There’s a poke at his head. “Not getting soft on me, are ya, Sammy?”

 

Sam smiles into his arms, head turning with no veiling of his fondness. “--I’ve always been soft for you, you know that.” Sam says softly. Jack laughs.

 

He dozes off with the feeling of fingers drawing through his hair, only waking when one of the trainers come to collect them for the journey home. It’s Jack that curls up into Sam’s side on the flight back to Buffalo. Sam doesn’t have the heart to move him, just gives a sleepy smile and shifts to be more comfortable. Caber drops a blanket over the both of them not long after and doesn’t even smirk.

 

Beneath the fluffy blanket, Jack shifts, their pinkies just touching before he grabs Sam’s hand.

 

There’s a picture in the group chat when Sam wakes up, grainy Snapchat quality with the eyes emoji looking at their linked hands peeking out from under the blanket. Jack laughs when he sees it, and tightens his grip on Sam’s hand.

 

…

 

Life without Jack is much like life without Jack had been at the beginning of last season. Some of his family flies in from Boston soon after, but still leaves Sam alone the first night to deal with Jack hyped up on pain meds.

 

“You know I love you, right?” Jack says, eyes wide and staring up at him when Sam finally gets him into bed.

 

“Yeah--” says Sam. “Of course.”

 

…

 

Mornings are the hardest. Quiet breakfasts of egg whites and coffee when Sam knows all Jack wants to do is come to the rink and practice with the team, but Sam climbs into the car alone.

 

“He’s not replaceable. Losing someone like that--” He says later that day. “--it’s not going to be just one person.” As much as Sam wants to believe in this team, he doubts that even together they could even begin to fill the void Jack leaves.

 

But they try --oh do they try. And it’s not half-bad.

 

The win over Tampa is well-earned, an odd sort of connection the team has certainly been lacking. They struggle as they always have; they come back. Jack’s in the pressbox when they’re at home. Sam sleeps alone when they go on the road and it sucks.

 

Consistency has never been the Sabres’ strong suit in the three years they’ve been on this team.

 

It’s almost poetic that they come home and Sam kisses Jack against their bedroom door and then the team goes and beats the Bruins beneath Keybank’s dome.

 

Almost poetic that they walk from that win with the bitter taste of the trade deadline underlying harsh.

 

...

 

Sam wakes up with Jack’s arm over his chest and face tucked into his shoulder. It’s not an odd occurrence, his own bodily clock has always run a bit faster than Jack’s but especially given today, a full rest day, it’s odd there’s any movement before 2 pm. 6:32 am says the alarm clock on his side of the bed. Sam sighs, shuts his eyes for another brief stretch of time before he realizes there’s no going back to sleep.

 

He’s not stupid --he knows exactly what day it is and exactly why he can’t get his heart to even out down to rest rate.

 

He supposes this is the worst one they’ve experienced yet --as far as trade deadlines go.

 

Another minute passes before Sam eases himself from bed with easy practice and walks barefoot to the kitchen, pulling on one of Jack’s BU sweatshirts as he goes. He puts on the morning news at a low rumble to ward off the emptiness of the house and putters around to make coffee.

 

It’s not long before he senses Jack’s presence behind him --Jack never did like sleeping alone. His hand freezes holding the lid of the coffee tin, unsure of what to say so he says nothing, just finally encourages muscles to go back to doing their job.

 

“Hey—“ Jack murmurs, coming up slowly behind him, one hand settling briefly on Sam’s hip before arms wrap more securely around his waist. Sam’s back tenses up against his chest for an agonizingly long heartbeat before he relaxes, one hand resting over Jack’s. “What’re you doing up?” It’s a soft question, syllables still catching on the toughness of sleep, followed by a soft kiss to the nape of Sam’s neck and the press of his chin into his shoulder.

 

It’s obvious, isn’t it?

 

The light stripe taped up under the cabinet over their sink is on, a soft yellow light that battles with the harshness of the television, and the grey-ish dawn creeping closer to the horizon. Sam stares at it like it can ground him.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

Like nothing is certain about this, about his future. How despite his recent success every mistake comes back to haunt and drag down.

 

Jack shuts his eyes, tightens his arms around Sam. He sighs, a long easing breath and presses another kiss into the side of his neck. “It’s not nothing.”

 

“You already know.”

 

“You’re not going anywhere.” Jack says, and there’s an undertone of unwavering conviction.

 

Sam almost believes him.

 

…

 

Detroit. Tampa, again. An exhilarating stroke of luck game against the Leafs—

 

Some things are working.

 

Some aren’t.

 

Jack looks sad when Sam comes home.

 

Lose. Win. Lose.

 

Lost consistency.

 

...

 

It stings a little when Vegas barges in and makes them fall in OT, especially after such a good game and even more electrifying overtime. Sam drops his pads and gear as fast and he can, and pushes into the cool back hallways of the rink, hands wringing through hair.

 

“Hey.” Sam’s head jerks up, and Jack is there because of course he is. “—you played well. That overtime was amazing.”

 

And— yeah. Maybe it was, but if it was really that amazing he would have scored. Sam hears himself say as much.

 

Jack looks a little sad, but doesn’t say anything to that. Sam didn’t think he would. It’s an understanding, and Sam knows Jack feels this every time he steps out on the ice regardless of the arena, the sea of color that swarms in the stands.

 

“I have to go.” Sam says, “I have a media scrum.” He turns to leave, but Jack’s hand wraps around his wrist before he can.

 

“Hey---you played well.” Jack repeats, and Sam lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 

Jack skates with the team after Vegas, and it’s no secret he wants to be there with them.

 

...

 

They’re sitting on the couch later that night, Jack only just humoring the soccer game Sam’s flipped on.

 

“I miss you.” says Sam, head on Jack’s shoulder and eyes on the TV.

 

“Soon--” says Jack, fingers pressed lightly into the skin at his wrist. “--we’ll be back soon. Me at center. You on my wing --where we belong.”

 

Sam turns, looks up with a hint of a smile. “Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Soon.”

 

Jack’s smiling when Sam pulls him in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> this is Quite Shambly and i do apologize, but soft boys in love, always. comments greatly appreciated and as always, talk to me at [eichhart](http://eichhart.tumblr.com)!
> 
> edit: well now thanks to the new interview that came out we now know Jack’s the one who wakes up first but who knows ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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